To Kill a Musketeer
by CaroH
Summary: The Musketeers are sent on a mission to the border with Spain. Peril awaits them due to the scheming of Rochefort.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to my new story. It is set after episode 2.3 so contains spoilers if you haven't already seen it.

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter One**

Rochefort stood at the right hand of the King watching with little interest while a portly man approached the throne. It didn't impress him that this was the most famous jeweller in Paris. He looked around idly. There was no sign of the Queen or that meddlesome commoner, Constance Bonacieux. It was irritating that, since saving the Dauphin's life, Constance had risen in the King's esteem. Personally he wouldn't have minded if the child had died. It would have given him an opportunity to get closer to Anne during her time of grief.

"Well, Monsieur Fabrin, do you have the necklace?" the King asked eagerly.

Fabrin bowed and handed over a silk lined box which the King opened. "As you can see, Your Majesty, the diamond is of the highest quality. Look how it gleams in the light."

Louis lifted out the necklace, admiring the large diamond suspended from the gold chain. "Look, Rochefort. Do you think this will please the Queen?"

He dutifully examined the exquisite piece of jewelry. "I'm sure she will be overwhelmed, Sire. Can I ask the reason for the gift?"

"She gave me a son. This is a token of my esteem."

Somehow, Rochefort doubted that. It was more likely that the King was trying to get back into her good graces after she caught him in flagrante delicto with Milady de Winter.

"Thank you, Fabrin. See my treasurer for your payment."

The jeweller bowed again and almost strutted out of the throne room. Rochefort's lip curled in disdain. He detested dealing with the common merchant class even though they had their uses.

"If I may speak privately?" he inquired.

"Leave us." The King waved his hand in the direction of the crowd of courtiers who always seemed to surround him.

Rochefort could see the unconcealed looks of dislike and even outright hatred on the faces of the men who saw him as a usurper of power. If it hadn't been for the Cardinal's death he would not have been able to rise so high in such a short period of time since his return from Spain. His friendship with the royal couple had earned him envy and antipathy and he was more than content to encourage those destructive emotions.

Once they were alone he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "There are rumours, Sire, that the Spanish have sent a military force across the border to garrison the town of Hendaye."

An angry flush stained Louis' cheeks. "They've invaded my country? Does the King of Spain think I will sit still and do nothing while he humiliates me? Send for the Spanish Ambassador."

"If I might make a suggestion, Majesty. This is nothing more than unsubstantiated rumour. Before provoking a war with Spain might it not be sensible to find out if the rumours are true?"

"What would I do without you, Rochefort? You came back to us in my hour of need and have proved as capable as the Cardinal."

"That is high praise and undeserved. Cardinal Richelieu was a genius with a flair for diplomacy. I am a mere soldier who is content to dedicate his life to furthering Your Majesty's interests."

"Your modesty does you credit. Now, what do you suggest?"

"Send a small force of Musketeers to conduct reconnaissance."

"Can they be trusted to carry out their mission? Treville and his Musketeers have been such a disappointment recently."

"Let this be their redemption and, if they fail, they will deserve their fate."

"Quite right. Send for Captain Treville. He can send his best men at once."

TMTMTM

"This information came from Rochefort?" Athos asked. "Do we believe him?"

"I don't trust a word he says but this is too important to ignore," Treville responded. "If it is true we are very close to a war with Spain."

"Why us?" Porthos asked.

"Despite recent events the King still believes you are the best soldiers in the regiment."

"He's right," Aramis said.

Treville shot him an irritated glare. "This is your chance to prove that. Don't fail me."

"You can trust us, Captain," d'Artagnan said. "You know we would never let you down."

"I know but events keep conspiring against us."

"Do you ever regret turning down the position on the King's council?" Athos asked.

"Not for a minute. Now, get your things together. You leave in the morning."

When Treville turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk they knew they were dismissed.

"What do you think Rochefort is up to this time?" d'Artagnan asked as they made their way down the stairs.

"I don't know, and that's worrying," Athos responded. "We should be on our guard. He isn't to be trusted."

"He's never made a move against us," Aramis said. "Well, except for always making sure he sides with the King when we do something to disappoint him."

"He's too devious to do anythin' obvious," Porthos mused. "He just pours poison into the King's ear and undermines the Captain."

"We could be misjudging him," Aramis said.

"You're not that naïve, Aramis. He's a snake who can't be trusted. You remember how he always did the Cardinal's bidding however distasteful the task. He learned from the best and I don't believe he returned from Spain a changed man. You saw him kill that villager in cold blood and he humiliated the Spanish Ambassador when he attacked him in front of the King. He's ambitious and ruthless and it would suit him to see the Musketeers gone."

"I grant that all you say is true, Athos, but you forget that he also saved your life."

"I'm sure it was for his own reasons."

"What happens if he's telling the truth this time?" d'Artagnan asked.

"The King won't forgive an invasion, even a small one. If this is true we could very well find ourselves at war with Spain."

TMTMTM

Rochefort entered the crypt and lowered the hood of his cloak. Ambassador Perales awaited him impatiently. There was no friendship between the two men. He knew that Perales did not agree with the decision to release him and didn't trust him to faithfully act as an agent of Spain. In truth he cared little for Spain. His own ambitions left little room for loyalty to a cause or country. But, Spain was useful to him. Fear of that country was allowing him to grow closer to Louis who was a weak and indecisive monarch.

"What do you want, Rochefort? I am not your servant to be summoned at all hours of the day and night."

"I have news. The King believes that Spain has sent a small invasion force to the town of Hendaye. It is an insignificant little place on the ocean but it has great strategic importance because of its position on the border."

"Why would he think that?" the Ambassador asked.

"Because I wish him to. I have persuaded him to send Musketeers to investigate. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan leave at dawn. It is the perfect opportunity to be rid of them. Send word to Spain to set up an ambush."

"We are not here to indulge you in your personal vendettas."

"You don't understand. Treville is out of favour and that means the Musketeer regiment is out of favour. The King finds fault with them at every opportunity and it would not take much for him to disband them. The belief that his precious Musketeers have failed in so important a mission could be the impetus we need to finally persuade him. The death of those four is merely a bonus." His hatred of the Musketeers was deep rooted but this was personal. He would never forgive them for dragging him home behind their horses and humiliating him in front of Treville. The fact that they had also saved his life was incidental and didn't engender any feelings of gratitude.

"Very well. I will pass along the information. Whether or not the King grants your request is his decision alone."

"We don't have much time," Rochefort said. "They leave tomorrow."

"Patience, Rochefort. I will use our relay of couriers. Is there anything else that you wish to tell his Majesty?"

"Tell him that all is going according to plan. I have the ear of the King and the friendship of the Queen. Driving a wedge between them will be all too easy. Louis is lonely now that the Cardinal has gone. He is finding it hard to make decisions of state and now he relies upon me. He is right where I need him to be…under my control."

Tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Two**

After a morning spent riding steadily south the four stopped by the banks of a fast moving stream to eat. D'Artagnan unwrapped a loaf of bread, dividing it between his companions. Slices of cheese and cold sausage quickly followed. Porthos bent down to refill his water skin and took a mouthful of the cool liquid. He sighed with pleasure as it washed away the dust that had accumulated in his throat.

Spring was rapidly giving way to summer as the sun regained its power and the days lengthened. Thrushes sang cheerfully in the branches of the trees while a family of ducks floated contentedly down the stream. It was a perfect day for the start of their journey.

"What's so important about Hendaye?" d'Artagnan asked, settling down on the soft grass.

"No idea. Never heard of it," Porthos replied.

"Neither had I until Treville showed us the map." Aramis took a bite of bread and cheese and leaned back against the trunk of a massive oak tree. The leaves diffused the sunlight making for a pleasant respite from the warmth of the day. He took a moment to remove his weapons, sash and coat, allowing the slight breeze to dry the sweat on his skin.

"Athos?" D'Artagnan said.

"It holds a unique position right at the south-western edge of our border with Spain. Because it is on the coast it gives access to France by land and sea. Also it is in a region long in dispute between the two countries." He took off his hat, running the back of his hand across his damp forehead.

"It's a very long way from Paris. How does it help the Spanish to hold some insignificant little town?"

"You make a good point, d'Artagnan. However, they don't need to take Paris to overthrow the King. And, the timing makes sense. Before the birth of the Dauphin the Queen would have had no power if the King died. Now, should anything happen to him she will be declared regent and she is, of course, Spanish. She would likely pay close attention to any instructions sent by her brother and I have no doubt that he would offer troops for her protection."

"She wouldn't betray France," Aramis said hotly.

"Take it easy, Aramis. No-one's accusing her of anythin'" Porthos said soothingly.

"She wouldn't deliberately work against the country's interests, but she would be frightened and easily led." Athos shot a warning glare in Aramis' direction, reminding him that the others weren't aware of his connection to Anne and the Dauphin.

Aramis backed down, knowing his friend was right. A woman alone was in a vulnerable position. A widowed Queen would be the target for any man with ambition. His jealous thoughts turned to Rochefort whose position allowed him an intimacy with the Queen that Aramis would never be allowed. Even if the King were to die there would be no hope for a lowly Musketeer. The depression that he had been battling since the birth of his son threatened to suffocate him.

"Taking Hendaye will only be one way they attack," Athos said to break the uncomfortable silence. He could see that Aramis was closing in on himself and, while he understood the reason, he knew how self-destructive such thoughts could be. He had shut himself off for months after giving the order to execute his wife and was only now emerging from the fog that had filled his mind with thoughts of 'what if'. It was no way to live. He had to keep Aramis engaged with the present, not brooding on the past or indulging in hopeless dreams. "We know they have agents in Paris stirring up unrest. They also land at many of our ports quite legally because of our trade treaties. That would be an easy way for them to move men. France is exposed because of its long coastline. If Spain landed troops on our northern shore and pushed up from the border they would catch us in a pincer movement. We would be fighting on two fronts."

"Do you really believe there will be war?"

"Yes, lad. Look at the rest of Europe. Not one country lives at peace with its neighbour. Philip is ambitious. Ever since the invasion of England failed and the Armada was lost Spain has felt humiliated. Conquering France would put it right back in the centre of political life," Porthos said.

"How will the Queen feel about her husband and brother fighting each other?"

"It will make France a dangerous place for her. I've heard that there have already been a few anti-Spanish protests in the city." Aramis exchanged a quick glance with Athos.

"The Queen is well protected."

"Yes. Treville won't let anything happen to her." Aramis wished he was still in Paris, helping to watch over the woman he loved more than life. Even though she had been cold and distant since their son's birth he couldn't help his feelings. Perhaps he was doomed to always love women he couldn't have. His mood spiraled even further down. Both Adele and Isabelle were dead and he felt that he had let them both down. They had relied on him to protect them and he had failed.

"Do you think Rochefort has sent us on this journey to get us out of the way? It's going to take almost two weeks to get there." D'Artagnan began to pack up the remains of the food.

"It's possible although I can't see a motive." Athos replaced his hat on his head, stood and brushed crumbs from his breeches.

"Nothin' we can do about it anyway. We have our orders."

Aramis put his coat and sash back on and buckled his sword belt. His expression remained somber and his thoughts were a long way from their present location.

"What's it like fighting in a battle?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Noisy," Athos said.

"Hot," Porthos added.

"Confusing." Aramis laid a hand on the young man's arm. "Pray that you never have to find out."

TMTMTM

"Hendaye?" Anne said. "Do you remember, Rochefort? That's where I first met Louis. I was fourteen and very frightened. I think you were the only one there who saw me as a person and not just a prize in the diplomatic dance between our two countries."

"How could I forget your radiance, Your Majesty? You were the most beautiful woman there. I recall that it was grey and damp but you lit up the occasion like the sun."

Anne laughed. "You always did know what to say to lift my mood."

"I only ever speak the truth." On this occasion he was speaking with complete honesty. He had spent weeks tutoring her in the ways of France only to witness Louis all but ignoring his new bride. It was during that time that he had fallen hopelessly in love.

"You are a shameless flatter."

They were walking in the garden with her ladies. He could see that Anne was valiantly trying to pretend that nothing was wrong even though the King had installed his new mistress in rooms in the east wing of the palace. Rochefort had never heard any rumours of infidelity before and he found it surprising that it should happen now so soon after the Dauphin's birth.

"Are you well, Your Majesty?" he asked with genuine solicitation.

"Quite well, thank you, Rochefort. How are you settling into life back at Court?"

He was disappointed that she hadn't taken the opportunity to unburden herself to him. No doubt she told all her deepest fears and desires to that dreadful woman she'd chosen as a confidante. "It is far superior to my last residence." He shuddered slightly and was rewarded by her taking his arm.

"I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me to remind you of your ordeal."

"It is in the past. Now you must tell me how I can be of service to you."

"Keep me informed. My husband does not wish to burden me with affairs of state but I worry about these rumours of war."

"You are wise to be concerned. Please forgive me for saying that your Spanish blood is an impediment although I am assured that your people love you. Rest easy in your mind that I will always be by your side as your protector."

"You are a good man. Now, excuse me. I must visit my son."

Rochefort bowed deeply. "Of course Your Majesty." He deliberately moved to bar Constance's way when she would have followed after her mistress. "I hope you bear me no ill-will, Madame Bonacieux."

"You were just doing your duty."

"I apologise for my actions."

"It seems you are very good at apologies, Monsieur. Perhaps next time you will find out the truth before rushing to judgement."

"I hope there won't be another similar occasion. This should have taught you to mind your place." He gave her a condescending smile.

"It certainly taught me a valuable lesson." Constance now knew not to trust Rochefort. It was worrying that the Queen only saw him as her childhood friend. Anne seemed blind to his ambition and utter lack of conscience.

"The Dauphin is well?"

"Strong and thriving," she said.

"The Queen is fortunate to have such a dedicated servant." He deliberately emphasised the last word. The woman was an insufferable nuisance, always eavesdropping and never giving him the chance to speak privately with the Queen.

"We are all servants to their Majesties," Constance said equably before curtseying and walking away.

Rochefort was curious about the rumours linking her and d'Artagnan. The young man had lodged for a time at her husband's home and had recommended her for her present position. So far he'd seen no impropriety so either they were being very careful or there was nothing between them. He dismissed his thoughts. D'Artagnan would soon be dead and perhaps that death would break Constance's spirit. Yes, everything was in hand.

His next thought was for Milady de Winter. She was the King's acknowledged mistress and her presence was helping to drive the royal couple even further apart. He would have to make enquiries about her. No-one he'd spoken to so far had been able to tell him anything except that she was supposed to have saved the King when he'd been kidnapped by slavers. He recognised her ambition which matched his own. An alliance might benefit both of them and she could be a good source of information about the King. He enjoyed the intrigue. It was like playing chess, moving all the pieces carefully into place ready for the coup de gras and the moment when the King fell.

Tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Three**

13 days later

Athos unbuckled his pauldron and stowed it in his saddlebags. Next he removed his jacket and replaced it with a loose fitting cloth doublet. A dark brown cloak completed the transformation.

"I don't like this," Porthos said. "We're on French soil. Why can't we wear our uniforms?"

"We have to proceed cautiously. If the Spanish have garrisoned the town they won't welcome the arrival of Musketeers," Athos explained patiently.

"Besides, if they are there we want to take a good look around without someone trying to kill us." Aramis buttoned up a leather waistcoat and swapped his hat for a large brimmed one. "Remember our cover story. We're mercenaries looking for work. That way it won't look strange that we're so heavily armed."

"Stay alert," Athos said. "We don't know what we're going to find."

They mounted their horses, left the copse of trees where they had hidden their uniforms and rode until they reached a vantage point overlooking the town. Athos pulled out his telescope and spent a long time surveying the area.

"There's no sign anything is wrong. The only ship in the harbour flies the French flag. The gates are open and I can't see any sign of soldiers on the walls."

"It appears we might have had a wasted trip," Aramis said.

"I knew we couldn't trust Rochefort," Porthos growled.

"Don't be too hasty, gentlemen. We can only be certain by going in. There's an island in the river between the two countries. It's possible the Spanish are holed up there."

"This whole thing feels wrong," d'Artagnan said. "It's been weeks since Rochefort's spies sent their reports. Why would the Spanish be content simply to hold a small town miles from Paris?"

"It's sympbolic; a move designed to push King Louis closer to war. So far we've kept out of most of the conflicts plaguing Europe apart from our support of Sweden. That in itself has made us unpopular. A Catholic country financing a Protestant one is a risky strategy."

"Let's get on with it." Porthos spurred his horse down the hillside.

"He was hoping to kill some Spanish," Aramis said wryly. "You know how he gets when he can't have a good fight."

"Then we had better catch up with him."

When they reached the main road they found it busy with wagons heading to market. One contained vegetables, piled high with cabbages, onions and carrots. Another was filled with caged hens. A shepherd drove a flock of sheep in front of him while his dog circled them to keep them in line. They rode along the grassy verge, arriving at the gate and entering unchallenged. The crowds of people slowed their progress as they continued on to the town square, aware of the curious stares and whispered comments.

"Nothing looks out of the ordinary," Aramis said.

"You and Porthos check the town. D'Artagnan and I will go to the harbour and the Isle des Faisans. We will meet back here in two hours. If you see any Spanish troops do not under any circumstances engage them. Our mission is to get word back to the King, not inflame the situation.

TMTMTM

The harbour was busy. The ship, Athos found out, had just returned from a voyage to the East Indies. It carried a cargo of rum, silks and tobacco. Sailors and longshoremen mingled among the barrels and crates. Seagulls cawed harshly and the smell of the sea warred with the stench of raw sewage.

"I wonder how Bonaire likes his Spanish prison," d'Artagnan mused, the ship having reminded him of the slaver who had brought Porthos so much heartache.

"I'm sure it's giving him plenty of time to reflect on the error of his ways."

They strolled along the wharf. D'Artagnan politely refused the advances of a pox-marked whore and looked around with interest. "It looks like a normal day."

"Yes. If the Spanish came they did no damage."

They turned inland, following the course of the river Bidassoa. Athos pointed to the far shore. "Spain," he said. "The island in the middle of the river is French but it is often used as neutral territory."

"Have you been here before?"

"Once, long ago, before I became a Musketeer. There was a meeting with the Spanish nobility to arrange trading agreements. My father should have come but he was taken ill and sent me instead. Our lands were fertile, supplying more grain than we could ever use. It was a lucrative contract. By the time I returned home my father was dead and I was the Comte de la Fere."

D'Artagnan glanced quickly at Athos. It was so rare that his friend spoke of his family and he wondered how he could be so unemotional after all that had happened. "You must miss that life."

"After Anne murdered Thomas there was nothing left for me at la Fere. My life took a different path."

"I'm sorry, Athos."

"There is no need, d'Artagnan. I chose the life of a Musketeer. It gave me a purpose and a brotherhood that had eluded me during my younger days."

As they approached the island d'Artagnan could see stone walls rising above the trees. "What's that?"

"Fortifications. I suspect if there has been a movement of troops they will be bivouacked there."

"It's very quiet."

"That's what worries me. Something isn't right but I don't know what it is."

D'Artagnan looked at his mentor, brow furrowed. "How do you know?"

"Call it a sixth sense." Athos turned quickly to look behind him. "I've had the feeling since we arrived that we're being watched."

"Let's give them something to see." D'Artagnan headed towards the stone bridge spanning the river between the town and the island.

Athos shook his head at the impetuousness of youth and quickened his pace. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and a shiver went down his spine. He turned again more slowly. A man walking several hundred yards behind suddenly darted into an alley.

Once on the island it felt like they were in an oasis of peace. None the less Athos kept his hand close to his sword and his ears attuned to his surroundings. Birds called and small animals rustled through the undergrowth. Other than that there were no signs of life.

They explored the fortifications. "No sign anyone has been here recently," Athos said. "We should head back to meet Porthos and Aramis."

When they reached the town square they found only Porthos waiting for them.

"Where's Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked.

"In there." Porthos gestured towards a whitewashed building with stained glass windows and a large crucifix on the apex of the red tiled roof.

"Saint Vincent Church," Athos read from the sign outside. "What's he doing in there?"

"Prayin'. He's in a strange mood."

"Ah. Let me fetch him," Athos said. "Wait here."

The church was larger than he had realised. A wooden balcony ran around the sides and rear and the main floor was dotted with statues that looked age-worn. An ornate golden crucifix stood on the altar, gleaming in the light from the candles. He found Aramis kneeling in the last pew, his dark head bent and his fingers toying with the beautiful cross gifted to him by the Queen.

Athos waited patiently. He wasn't a religious man but he could respect his friend's deep-rooted faith. The priest, who was standing by the altar, eyed Athos warily. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before folding his arms across his chest. The priest watched him for a moment longer then seemed to decide he wasn't a threat and went about his business.

When Aramis finally rose to his feet he looked more at peace. "Did you find anything?" he asked.

"No. If the Spanish were here, which I doubt, they've long gone. Did you see any signs of them?"

Aramis shook his head. "By the time we return home we will have been away from Paris for a month. I wonder what mischief Rochefort has been making in our absence."

"That is a worry. I only hope Treville has stayed clear of his machinations. We'll rest here tonight and then head back."

"He would see the Captain dismissed if he could."

They walked out of the church to rejoin their companions.

"What now?" Porthos asked.

"We find an inn. Don't let your guard down."

"You feel it too?" Aramis asked.

"Feel what?" d'Artagnan looked at each of his friends.

"Unfriendly eyes," Porthos said. "Trouble's brewin', lad."

D'Artagnan grinned. "Then we'll just have to be ready for it."

Tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Four**

Athos sat with his back to the wall and a flask of wine on the table in front of him. Porthos and Aramis were playing cards with a group of locals while d'Artagnan looked on. There was a loud groan when Porthos won again. Athos beckoned to d'Artagnan.

"Tell him to stop cheating. We don't want to be lynched by an angry mob."

"He's getting better at it."

"It's one thing to cheat the Red Guard. They deserve it. These are poor people who work hard for their money." He watched Aramis effortlessly charm one of the tavern girls. Even when distracted his friend couldn't resist responding to a pretty face. That was good. The day Aramis stopped flirting with every attractive female he met was the day to really start worrying.

D'Artagnan tapped Porthos on the shoulder and said something in a low voice. Porthos grinned, acknowledging the young man's words.

Athos poured a glass of wine. It was a rough vintage with a strong overtone of cherries. He drank deeply, his palate blunted by the amount of alcohol he had regularly consumed for the past five years. Tonight he was being careful although he didn't get the impression that there were any suspicious strangers in the tavern. There was no undercurrent of unease so he gradually allowed his body to relax.

Porthos lost the next two hands, one to Aramis and one to a local man. He gathered up his remaining coins and wandered over to join Athos. "No sign of anythin' amiss." He helped himself to the wine.

"No, which doesn't mean much."

"True." He acknowledged the arrival of their food. "This is pretty good." He spooned up the mutton stew, eating enthusiastically. "Nice little town."

"They seem to live a peace with their Spanish neighbours." Athos had heard several people speaking Spanish and, unlike in Paris, there was no tension in the air. "They regularly trade across the river."

"Why would Rochefort's spies make a false report?" He waved to the serving girl, indicating he wanted another bowl of stew.

"I don't believe they did. This was Rochefort's doing. He wanted us out of Paris."

"Treville?"

"Possibly." He gazed over at the card players. D'Artagnan had taken Porthos' place. "How's Aramis?"

"Seems distracted. I get the feelin' you two are keepin' something from me."

"He's having woman trouble," Athos said vaguely.

"Don't tell me he's pining for someone. Who?"

"I couldn't say. He can be very discreet when he wants to be."

"We need him sharp. This mission's been too easy so far."

"I agree. I'll talk to him."

TMTMTM

They were sharing two rooms. Athos sent Porthos and d'Artagnan to one, ignoring the hurt look on the youngster's face. The Gascon has become very attached, looking to Athos as his mentor, a role about which he had mixed feelings. It was a little too like the hero worship afforded to him by his brother Thomas before their relationship had irreparably changed. The reminder was painful but d'Artagnan wasn't Thomas. He was an honourable and courageous young man who had, almost unnoticed, wormed his way into Athos' affections. He saw that Aramis also looked surprised and a little apprehensive.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't play games, Aramis. Rochefort had the King send us away for a reason. He's either plotting in Paris or he has a nasty surprise waiting for us."

"I won't let you down," Aramis said, looking hurt by the implication.

"You are obsessing about the Queen and the Dauphin. It's making you careless." Athos couldn't afford to let the distraught look affect him. This had to be said, however difficult that might be. "And Porthos is getting suspicious."

"I can't help it. I love them, Athos."

"I know but you have to find a way to forget them."

"I can't do that."

"You know it's hopeless. If even a hint of this gets out you will ruin the Queen and most likely be hanged for treason."

Aramis sat on the bed, shoulders slumped. "I know. I will try harder."

"I believe you." Athos sat beside his friend and put a comforting hand on his arm. "I still have a bad feeling about this mission. Something is wrong. Remember that you are our best marksman. I need you to concentrate on our surroundings. Your skill might be all that lies between us and disaster."

Aramis met his troubled gaze steadily. "I won't let you down."

TMTMTM

For the next two days Aramis did everything he could to avoid thinking about the Queen and his son. He kept engaged in the discussions and friendly teasing as they made their way back to Paris. Towards dusk on the second day of their journey the road meandered into a thick forest. The meadow they were crossing was strewn with clover and wild flowers. A small stream gurgled over rocks before vanishing beneath the trees. It was an idyllic scene.

"We should stop for the night," Athos said. "Aramis, see if you can find something for our supper."

D'Artagnan and Porthos went to gather wood for a fire while Athos watered the horses and unsaddled them for the night. Two shots sounded, sending nesting birds up into the air in fright. Aramis returned with a brace of rabbits which he quickly skinned and gutted. Soon they were roasting on spits, the dripping fat causing the flames to crackle and flare.

After they had eaten Aramis cleaned and reloaded his pistols and settled down for the night. He lay unable to sleep and watched the stars. Soon he heard the soft snores of his companions. He turned on his side facing the forest. Something was nagging at him, reminding him of the night in Savoy when he'd lost so many brothers. He lay still, staring into the darkness. When he saw a movement on the edges of the light cast by their fire he knew his instincts had served him well.

"Ambush!" he yelled. He reached for a pistol, discharging it into the chest of the man who rushed forward in response to his shout. He jumped to his feet, sword in hand. He was aware that his companions had also reacted instantly to the threat. In the darkness of the night it was impossible to tell how many men they faced. He engaged one of them, his initial panic overtaken by the joy of battle.

"Aramis, behind you," d'Artagnan shouted.

He ducked, pivoted and sank his dagger into his assailant's gut. A slash across the arm brought his attention back to the man he'd been facing. He parried another blow, twisted and disengaged. There was no pain from his wound which bled sluggishly. The pain would come later.

He lunged forward, knocking the other blade aside. There was no respite in his opponent's attack. The skill and stamina convinced Aramis that they were facing soldiers, not some ruffian band that had seen the opportunity for an easy kill. He fought instinctively, his skill honed by years of practice, waiting for an opening.

The sound of a pistol and a pained gasp momentarily broke his concentration but he recovered quicker than the man he faced. He slid his sword into the man's body and watched shock overtake the bloodlust. With a twist of his wrist he withdrew the blade. His breath came in uneven gasps from the exertion of the fight.

When no other opponent appeared he looked around and his heart nearly stopped. D'Artagnan was on the ground, bleeding from a leg wound, his sword raised protectively over his head. His adversary battered at the sword, trying to break the barrier between them. Aramis still had his knife in his left hand. He threw it underarm and it sank deeply into the back of d'Artagnan's attacker who immediately slid to the ground.

Aramis rushed over to d'Artagnan, pressing his hand against the wound. Blood pumped strongly over his skin, the speed of the flow alarming him. "It will be alright," he said hastily. D'Artagnan nodded once before his face turned ashen and he collapsed.

Porthos was using all his strength to pound down his enemy's sword. Aramis could tell that the fight was almost over. Two bodies already lay at Porthos' feet. Athos was still locked in battled. As Aramis watched his friend tripped over a tree root. While he flailed to regain his balance his opponent took the initiative. It all happened too quickly for thought. The man raised his sword and brought it down hard.

"Athos!" Aramis screamed helplessly as the blade cut through muscle and sinew.

Tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Five**

The sword bit deeply into Athos' shoulder causing excruciating pain. The breath left his body rendering him unable to scream. His attacker yanked the blade out causing blood to flow freely down his arm. Athos fell to his knees, his left arm useless. He raised his sword determined not to die without a fight but his vision was blurring. He heard Aramis call his name and then there was the sound of a pistol firing. For a moment he expected to feel the ball entering his body then realised it was his opponent who was falling. He turned his head, everything seeming to move in slow motion. Aramis was kneeling by d'Artagnan, his left hand pressed against the young man's leg. In his right hand the smoke drifted from the muzzle of his pistol. Athos wanted to thank him but the words wouldn't come. He toppled over sideways, landing on his injured shoulder, and blacked out.

There was only one of their attackers left standing and he was hard-pressed by Porthos. In two quick moves Porthos disarmed him and rammed his sword into the man's chest. He didn't wait for his enemy to fall before rushing to Athos' side.

"How bad is it?" Aramis asked, fumbling with the buckle of his belt. When it came free he unwrapped his sash.

"It's bad. Deep enough to see bone."

"Is he alive?"

Porthos pressed two fingers against Athos' neck. "Pulse is faint but regular."

"That's good. Help me with d'Artagnan." Aramis removed his hand and the blood began to flow again. "Press down there."

"The ball's still in there."

"I know. It will have to come out soon but stopping the bleeding is our priority." He tied his sash tightly above the wound. "Alright, let's see." To his relief the blood flow slowed to a trickle. "Stay with him while I check on Athos."

He crossed to the other side of the fire and knelt down. Carefully rolling his friend onto his back he surveyed the damage. The wound was deep and the edges ragged. He felt bile rising in his throat as he realized how ill equipped he was to deal with such severe damage. "I'll have to sew it closed and hope he doesn't get an infection. Can you carry d'Artagnan over here?"

Porthos slipped an arm under d'Artagnan's knees and another around his shoulders. He grunted with the effort of rising. "Whelp's getting heavier. Maybe we should stop feeding him." He laid the young man down next to Athos.

"Build up the fire and boil some water," Aramis instructed. He went to his saddlebags and pulled out his spare shirts which he began to rip up to use as bandages.

D'Artagnan began to move his head from side to side and groaned. Aramis returned to his side. "Easy, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's eyelids fluttered open. "What happened?" he stammered weakly.

"You were shot. Lie still. I will have to remove the ball."

"Water's on the boil," Porthos said, rejoining them. "How is he?"

"Weak and disoriented. Check on Athos."

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked. "Is he hurt?"

"Breathing's good," Porthos reported. "He's still unconscious."

"That's for the best." Aramis gently pushed d'Artagnan down when the young man tried to rise. "Shoulder wound."

"Will he live?" d'Artagnan asked fearfully.

"He's too stubborn to die," Porthos said.

Aramis walked to the stream to wash his hands. He held out his right hand and spread his fingers, relieved to find them steady. Any mistake now could result in one or both of his friends being maimed for life. They were relying on him and it was a heavy burden. In the face of such responsibility his distraction of previous days seemed unimportant.

He drew his dagger and carried it to the fire where he held the blade in the flames. "Hold him, Porthos. I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, this is going to hurt but we have to get it out before it infects your leg. Do you still have that flask of brandy?" he asked Porthos.

"In my saddlebags."

Aramis retrieved the brandy and removed the cork. "Half and half," he said, holding the flask to d'Artagnan's lips. "Half for you and half to cleanse the wound."

D'Artagnan took a large mouthful, swallowed and began to cough. The cough became a scream when Aramis poured a steady stream of the liquid over the wound. Blood, pus and dirt poured over the edges to soak into the grass.

Aramis took a deep breath. "Ready?" he asked Porthos.

Porthos had d'Artagnan cradled against his chest, his grip firm. "Ready."

Aramis carefully separated the flesh, seeking visual confirmation of the location of the ball. D'Artagnan gripped Porthos' hand in a bruising grip, turned his face away and whimpered.

"It isn't too deep," Aramis said. He pushed the tip of the knife into the wound, his heart breaking for the additional pain he was causing. D'Artagnan's breath was coming in uneven gasps as Porthos tightened his hold.

"It'll all be fine, lad," Porthos said gently.

"Stop. Please!" D'Artagnan began to struggle.

"Keep him still, Porthos," Aramis said harshly. His own breathing was far from steady although he moved his hands with care and skill. He pressed deeper. "You're doing well, d'Artagnan. I almost have it." He reached in, his fingertips brushing against the ball. "Got it." He pulled it out and threw it onto the grass. "How is he?"

"Passed out again."

"Take some of the bandages, soak them and clean out the wound as much as you can. I will see to Athos." When he turned his attention to his other stricken comrade he found that Athos was awake. His eyes were dark and lines of pain marred his forehead and bracketed his mouth.

"How is he?" Athos asked.

"He's lost a lot of blood and will be weak when he wakes. The wound will heal though and he should recover fully if we can avoid an infection. How are you?"

"It hurts like the devil." Athos closed his eyes and for a moment all he could do was take shallow breaths to try and combat the pain. "I can't move my arm."

"You need more care than I can give you."

"There is no-one else." He clenched his teeth as another wave of pain assaulted him.

"Here." Aramis offered the flask of brandy and helped support Athos' head so that he could drink. "Save some for the wound. There is a village a day's ride ahead. I'll stitch you up and we'll head there. You and d'Artagnan need somewhere other than the open air in which to heal."

"How many attacked us?"

"Close to a dozen."

Athos grimaced. "It takes more than that to kill a Musketeer."

"So it seems." Aramis left Athos' side to fetch his suture kit. "I'm sorry I don't have anything stronger for the pain."

"You know I wouldn't take it even if you did." Athos looked away, suppressing a distant memory which still haunted his dreams.

"I can help with that," Porthos said.

"Porthos is right. This will go easier if you are unconscious."

Athos gave a brief nod and Aramis helped him to sit up with his back to a tree. Porthos approached flexing his fingers.

"You sure?"

"Just do it."

Porthos made a fist and lashed out at Athos' jaw. Athos' eyes rolled back and he slipped sideways right into Aramis' waiting arms.

Tbc


	6. Chapter 6

In Emilie Athos was charged with watching her through her withdrawal because he had some experience. That made me wonder what he had experienced so I decided to incorporate my thoughts into this story.

The next chapter will be delayed because I am travelling for most of next week but I will get it done as soon as I can.

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Six**

It was almost daylight before Aramis was able to relax. D'Artagnan had woken briefly, stoically trying to deny the pain Aramis knew he was feeling. After drinking some water the young man fell into a restless doze. Athos had roused from his state of unconsciousness shortly before the stitching was finished. Those last few minutes had been unpleasant for both of them. Athos lay now with his arm in a sling and pain etched into his features.

For the first time Aramis gave thought to their attackers. While he'd stitched Porthos had searched the bodies and then removed them from the camp. They would be left for the carrion. Neither of them had the energy nor inclination to bury them.

"Did you find anything?" Aramis asked. He yawned as exhaustion tugged at his senses. Despite the chill of the early morning he felt a little warm. He unbuttoned his coat to allow the breeze to cool his skin.

"Only this." Porthos held out a crumpled and bloodstained piece of paper.

Aramis smoothed it out and read the content. "It is written in Spanish. Orders to attack and despatch a reconnaissance force of Musketeers."

"Why bother? We were no threat to them."

"It appears someone didn't want us reporting back to the King. If we don't return he will believe the false rumours of an invasion."

"Someone wants war." Porthos sat down beside Aramis, giving a tired grunt. None of them had slept more than a couple of hours and the adrenalin surge caused by the battle had long since subsided. "We're at least fifty miles inside French territory."

"It was a brazen attack." Aramis moved slightly so that their shoulders were touching. After the strain of tending to their brothers he needed the comfort of human contact.

"D'you think Rochefort had anythin' to do with it?"

"I don't see how. He hates the Spanish for what they did to him while he was imprisoned." He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the lark welcoming the dawn. "I suppose if he pushed France into war he can strengthen his position. Louis is indecisive and will turn to Rochefort for guidance."

"I wish Treville had accepted the place on the King's council."

"He's no politician. I've never known a more straight forward man. He says what he thinks and be damned if he'll offer flattery." Aramis turned his head sharply when he heard d'Artagnan whimper in his sleep.

"Only Rochefort, the King and the Captain knew where we were headed," Porthos said grimly.

"It is a puzzle my friend, but we have a more immediate problem. Neither Athos nor d'Artagnan are fit to travel very far or fast but I fear for them if we don't find help soon. The closest village is a day's hard ride away. In their condition it will take closer to two."

"What do you suggest?"

"It would go easier for them if we had something for the pain. If you ride ahead and secure supplies I can travel more slowly with them."

Porthos shook his head. "I'm not leaving you to look after them alone. What if there are more Spanish out there?"

"That seems unlikely. Porthos, even with the two of us we would be hard-pressed to fight off another attack."

"Aramis is right," Athos said, joining their conversation for the first time. "D'Artagnan needs relief from the pain of his injury."

"As do you," Aramis pointed out.

"Bring me wine. That's all I need," Athos said. "It is as effective as any tincture of opium."

"Don't be stubborn," Porthos responded angrily. "You need pain medication as much as he does."

"There's no point in arguing. My mind is made up." Athos gasped when he moved his arm slightly. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he fought against the pain. "Ride ahead. We will be fine."

"This is another of your bad ideas," Porthos grumbled.

"Please, Porthos. We will be alright," Aramis said. "They are not fit to travel today. Maybe by tomorrow we will be able to start our journey."

"What guarantee do I have that this village will have what we need?"

"None, but we have to try. If there is no laudanum bring back as much strong alcohol as you can carry."

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked, looking at him with piercing intensity. "You look pale."

"I am well. It is only tiredness."

"Alright, I'll go but I will be back tomorrow."

Once Porthos left Aramis walked over to d'Artagnan who looked at him through half-lidded bloodshot eyes. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"I will manage." D'Artagnan gripped Aramis' sleeve. "Why won't Athos take anything for the pain?"

"You heard that? I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. That is not my story to tell." He helped d'Artagnan to sit up so that he could check the bandage. Only a small amount of blood had stained the white cloth and he let out a relieved sigh. The effort of supporting the young man though pulled at his own wound which he'd put out of his mind in his concern for his friends.

"There's blood on your sleeve," d'Artagnan said once he had caught his breath.

"It's nothing."

"You're injured."

"A shallow cut. Nothing more," he lied. He resolved to tend to his own wound once his friends were settled. It would help no-one if he succumbed to an infection caused by neglect. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. How's Athos?"

"It is a severe injury but he is coping better than expected."

He left d'Artagnan's side to check on Athos whose clenched jaw showed how hard he was working to suppress the sound of his pain. "You will not fight me on this," Aramis said sternly. "When Porthos returns you will take the medicine he brings." He rested his hand on Athos' uninjured shoulder. "Trust me. I won't allow it to get as bad as last time."

"You know I can't risk it."

"Without it you won't make it back to Paris. The wound is bad. It isn't going to heal quickly."

"I will be fine, Aramis."

"You need the care of a proper physician. It will take weeks for us to get home. Without rest and care you both might be left with permanent symptoms."

"I know," Athos conceded. "I have been thinking. We could head for Bordeaux and take ship to Le Havre. That will shorten the journey."

Aramis nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, you're right. We can find you both proper medical care and send a message to Treville. I would hate to find we have gone to war because of a delay in letting the King know that there has been no invasion." He shivered, the cold chills running the length of his body. "The fire is dying. I will fetch some wood. Rest while you can. Tomorrow will be hard."

Tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Seven**

He was delaying the inevitable moment when he would have to ascertain the extent of his injury. After gathering some wood he built up the fire. Then he checked on his two patients, encouraging both of them to drink some cool spring water. Once they were settled as comfortably as possible he took inventory of their supplies. Because they had intended to travel from village to village they hadn't brought much food with them. All they had left was a loaf of bread, some cheese, ham and two apples. He would have to hunt and that thought filled him with trepidation because his shivering was increasing and he wasn't sure that he could hold his pistol steady.

Finally he had no more excuses. Athos and d'Artagnan were both asleep, worn out by pain and blood loss. He walked slowly away from their camp, seeking a sheltered spot by the stream. Over the course of the past hour his arm had begun to throb unpleasantly and the warmth of the sun had failed to dissipate the chill that ran through his body. He stripped off his coat and gently pried the material of his shirt away from his blood encrusted skin. The wound was high on his right arm. It was no more than six inches long and, as he carefully examined it, he established that it went several inches deep. The edges of the cut were red and inflamed.

He bent down to wet his handkerchief which he used to clean the injury. He hissed sharply as the water penetrated the cut. It needed to be stitched but it wasn't something he could do himself. Athos would be of no help and he wasn't prepared to burden d'Artagnan. It would have to wait for Porthos' return. He pulled a bandage from his pocket and clumsily tied it around his arm. It was little enough protection from further damage. Moving his arm to get it back into the sleeve of his coat was painful and even that small accomplishment left him sweating and shaking.

His condition would only deteriorate which meant that he needed to find them food before he became incapacitated. He turned his attention to the stream which was populated with trout. He sat on the grassy bank and pulled off his boots and stockings. After rolling up his breeches he waded out into the centre, cursing silently as he walked over the sharp edges of pebbles. Not even the icy chill of the water was enough to bring relief to his heated skin. He began to shiver even harder.

The sun striking the water made it sparkle and the glare intensified the headache that had started to plague him. He stood as still as he could with shoulders hunched and stared into the stream. The fish had scattered with the disturbance of his presence but gradually they began to return. He reached down and scooped a large trout out of the water, throwing it onto the bank where it wriggled for a moment before becoming still. Soon two others had joined it and he felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment. He returned to the camp, gutted the fish and left them in the shade until he needed them. His friends still slept so he settled against the trunk of a large oak tree and closed his eyes.

TMTMTM

Aramis wasn't sure what had woken him. At first he couldn't even remember where he was. Then he heard the noise again and the events of the last few hours came rushing back. He stood up ignoring the pounding in his head and hurried over to Athos. Although Athos' normal stoic expression was in place it was clear that he was in unmanageable pain. Another groan escaped his lips. His face was deathly pale and he was sweating. His hand gripped Aramis' arm and he held on tightly.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Athos stammered.

"I shouldn't have slept," Aramis said guiltily. It was his job to watch over his friends and he had failed. "We have some brandy left. It will help."

He disentangled Athos' fingers from his shirt and retrieved the flask. He saw that d'Artagnan was also awake and watching them. "Take it steady," he advised, holding the flask to Athos' lips. Some colour return to his friend's face. "You need to relax. When you're tense it puts more strain on the muscles and pulls at the stitches."

"How's d'Artagnan?"

Aramis mused that it was typical of Athos to try to deflect the attention. "He is doing better." He wiped some sweat from his brow, feeling the fever taking hold of his body. "It is almost noon," he said after checking the position of the sun. "I caught some fish earlier. You and d'Artagnan need to eat."

He fetched some large river stones and placed them on the fire to heat. Then he went to check on d'Artagnan. He unwrapped the bandage, probing the injury gently. "The wound is clean," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Better." D'Artagnan looked at him closely. "You don't look well. Were you injured?"

Aramis sighed. "I have a cut on my arm."

"Let me see."

"There is nothing you can do. I believe it has become infected."

"You fool," d'Artagnan hissed. "You tended to us and neglected your own wound."

"I will be fine." He retied the bandage and stood up. "Don't say anything to Athos.

"Why did you send Porthos away when you knew you were hurt?"

"He is of more help to all of us where he is."

Aramis picked up the fish and laid them on the hot stones. The tremors in his hands had increased and he turned his back to d'Artagnan so that the young man couldn't see. He would ensure that his patients ate something and then, hopefully, he could rest again. It would be at least another day before Porthos returned and, come the morning, they should start their journey. He said a brief prayer for strength and concentrated on cooking their food.

Tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Eight**

Porthos arrived in Morcenx after dark. He'd pushed his horse as hard as he could, finally slowing down to avoid foundering the animal. The settlement was transitioning from a large village to a small town and that made his hopes rise that he would be able to find what he sought. He stopped at the first tavern he encountered. It was a rambling two storey building with a separate stable. He dismounted stiffly and stretched the muscles in his back.

"I'm gettin' too old for this," he grumbled.

A skinny boy of about ten years of age emerged from the stable. "Take care of your horse, monsieur?" he asked timidly.

"Yes." Porthos handed over the reins. "Are there rooms to rent here?"

"Two, monsieur. Both are empty."

"Rub him down and feed him." Porthos patted the horse fondly and handed over the reins. "He's had a hard day." He threw a coin which the boy snatched out of mid-air.

Porthos entered the tavern which was already busy. The buzz of conversation stopped as everyone turned to look at him. "I hate when that happens," he said under his breath. He made his way to the bar where a stout middle-aged man was serving beer and wine to his clientele. "You the owner?"

The man looked him over carefully, his eyes widening when he saw the pauldron. "I am."

"I need a room."

"Of course. It is an honour to serve one of the King's musketeers. Drink?"

"Wine." It was hardly vintage but he drained the glass in one swallow. "Do you serve food?"

"Chicken stew tonight. It'll be ready soon."

"Does this place have an apothecary?" Porthos held out his glass to be refilled.

"Monsieur Allard and his wife run a small shop but they will have closed up for the night."

"They'll open for me," Porthos said confidently. He laid two coins on the bar. "I'll be back for dinner and a room. Now, where can I find Monsieur Allard?"

Porthos followed the directions provided by the innkeeper. The shop was tiny with windows shuttered and the door locked. He assumed that the apothecary and his wife lived above the shop so he hammered loudly on the door. An upstairs window opened and a grey-haired man leaned out.

"Go away. We're closed."

"I have two badly wounded friends camped a day's ride away. I need supplies."

"Come back tomorrow."

"Now," Porthos growled. "Or I'll break this damn door down."

"There's no need for that," Allard said in alarm. "I'm coming down."

As soon as the door was unlocked Porthos pushed his way inside. "I need clean bandages, ointment and laudanum if you have any."

"What are the injuries?" Allard asked while opening drawers and cupboards to find the requested items.

"A pistol ball to the leg and a deep shoulder wound."

"Sounds serious." Allard picked up a small dark-coloured bottle. "This is all the laudanum I have. It is very hard to find."

"It'll be enough. How much?"

"Five livres."

Porthos pulled out his coin purse and counted out the money. It left him with just enough to pay for his keep for the night. He stowed the bottle carefully in a pocket, gathered up the other supplies and left with heart-felt words of thanks.

He arrived back at the tavern, his stomach rumbling with hunger. After several glasses of wine, two bowls of stew and slices of fresh-baked bread he began to feel better. The exertions of the day had exhausted him and he thought longingly of lying down. "I'm going to bed," he told the innkeeper. "Wake me in two hours. Understand?"

"Yes, monsieur."

Porthos didn't bother to undress. He climbed into bed, closed his eyes and was soon snoring peacefully.

TMTMTM

Athos couldn't get comfortable. Lying down put a strain on his shoulder. If he sat up the weight of his arm in the sling pulled on the stitches. The slightest movement caused excruciating pain accompanied by dizziness. Even holding completely still didn't provide relief from the constant pounding ache. He needed a distraction.

He looked at d'Artagnan. The young man moved restlessly, no more settled than he was. Aramis was nowhere in sight so Athos pushed his battered body off the ground and stood unsteadily. He leaned heavily against a tree and waited for his stomach to settle. It was only a short walk to where d'Artagnan sat but it felt like miles. He slid down to the ground next to his youngest brother.

"You shouldn't be moving around," d'Artagnan said, although he shifted sideways so that they sat shoulder to shoulder.

"Aramis isn't here to stop me."

A look of concern crossed d'Artagnan's face. "He's hurt too."

"What?" Athos sat straighter provoking lances of agony to pierce his shoulder. "Damn!" He lowered his head and concentrated on his breathing. "Tell me."

"It's his arm. I don't know how bad it is but he looks sick."

"I'll kill him," Athos said angrily. "He knows better than to risk his health."

"He was more concerned with looking after us."

"That's no excuse. Why did he send Porthos away if he was injured? I have to find him." Getting to his feet again was harder than the first time. Spots danced before his eyes and his vision darkened. He slumped back to the ground, wise enough to know that he could do even more damage if he passed out and fell. "Where did he go?"

"To fetch water. He's been gone a long time, Athos."

"It'll be dark soon. I have to find him." He rose to his feet more slowly and stood swaying slightly. He used his right hand to cradle his injured arm close to his body and took a step forward. His legs were wobbly but he was determined to complete his task. Moving slowly he headed for the stream. At first he didn't see Aramis and was starting to panic. Then he saw the marksman sitting on the bank at the point where the stream bent to the west. Aramis had his head down, his arms hugging his body and he was shivering incessantly.

"Aramis," Athos called.

Aramis' head shot up although he didn't move. "Go back to camp. I'll be there soon."

"D'Artagnan told me." Athos slowly crossed the distance between them. "You have a fever?"

"I will be alright."

Now that he was closer Athos could see the blotches of red staining Aramis' cheeks. "You are unwell."

"I'm sorry. I have let you and d'Artagnan down." Aramis' voice was husky with emotion.

"You saved our lives. Now, we have to help you. Come."

Aramis looked at him for the first time, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Do not worry about me. I will manage until Porthos returns."

Athos doubted that. "We shouldn't leave d'Artagnan alone." He didn't add that he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay on his feet.

"You're right."

Aramis' movements lacked their usual grace as he stood up. Slowly they walked back to the camp. D'Artagnan looked relieved when they reappeared although his concern for them was written clearly on his face. Athos began to falter and immediately Aramis slipped an arm around his waist to support him. Athos could feel the heat radiating from his friend's body and cursed inwardly because there was nothing he could do to help.

"I'll get us some food." Aramis gently eased Athos down to the ground near d'Artagnan and continued toward the horses.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He has a fever. We need to get him to a physician."

Aramis returned and handed out bread and cheese. Athos grimaced. He wasn't really hungry but knew that he had to eat to keep up his strength. He took a bite and chewed slowly. They ate in silence for a while, each lost in the misery of constant pain and illness.

"Tell me why you won't take anything for the pain."

Athos' heart raced at d'Artagnan's unexpected question. "Leave it," he said.

"I can see how much you are suffering. If Porthos brings something back that will help you would be a fool not to take it."

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it."

Unpleasant memories began to stir. It wasn't something he had ever discussed with anyone other than those who had lived through it with him. If it has been anyone other than d'Artagnan he would have avoided answering but somehow he was finding it harder and harder to hide things from the boy. "Three years ago I was seriously wounded. The physician gave me laudanum to keep me asleep so that I could heal. Even after the pain began to diminish I found I needed higher and higher doses. My body had become so used to the drug that there was a constant craving for it."

"It took time for us to realise the danger," Aramis said.

"Finally I begged Aramis and Porthos to help me. They…they locked me in a room. One of them was with me at all times while the drug loosened its hold. I was very sick with pain, hallucinations and violent shaking." He swallowed hard as he remembered. There had been times when he had almost begged for death to stop his suffering.

"He questioned our parentage on more than one occasion," Aramis said wryly.

"After two days I was exhausted and finally slept."

"He was asleep for almost twenty-four hours. When he woke he was weak but free of the drug's grip."

"Like Emilie," d'Artagnan said. "That's why you stayed with her. You knew what would happen."

"Yes. I knew the stages of withdrawal. Now you know why I will never subject myself to that again."

"We should all get some rest," Aramis said tiredly. "Tomorrow we resume our journey."

Athos had no great confidence in their ability to continue although he kept that thought to himself. His limited strength was fading fast, d'Artagnan was grey-faced with pain and Aramis was barely able to sit upright. "You need to get back here quickly, Porthos," he murmured. "We need you."

Tbc


	9. Chapter 9

I go on vacation in the middle of next week so that next chapter won't be posted for at least two weeks. Thanks for continuing to read and for the lovely reviews.

**To Kill a Musketeer**

**Chapter Nine**

Porthos rode through the night. As the sun began to rise he shook off his weariness in the hope that he would soon see his brothers. More time passed and he began to grow concerned. He'd expected them to be on the road yet there was no sign of them. Different scenarios flew through his mind as he spurred his tired horse onwards. Had the condition of Athos or d'Artagnan deteriorated? What if they had been attacked again? Were they all dead? His stomach knotted painfully as he approached their camp. He couldn't see any movement although the fire still burned brightly.

Then Athos stepped out from between the trees. He was pale and shaking but held determinedly onto his sword. Their eyes met and Porthos saw undisguised relief. That worried him even more because it was rare for their leader to be so open with his feelings. He slid from his horse and strode across the clearing to catch Athos as his strength evaporated. Looking around he saw d'Artagnan leaning heavily against the trunk of a tree also holding his sword.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked.

"Over there." Athos pointed to a mound of blankets.

"What happened?"

"He was wounded in the fight and now he has a fever," d'Artagnan replied.

"He didn't say anything." Porthos ascertained that Athos could stand unaided before relinquishing his grip. He walked over to Aramis who was shivering violently despite the coverings. Fever bright eyes regarded him warily.

"Porthos."

"When this is over we're goin' to have a talk," Porthos threatened. "How could you let me leave knowin' you were sick?"

"Did you get it?"

"Don't change the subject."

Aramis sat up slowly. "It's nothing. The fever will break soon."

"Or it'll kill you."

"Either way it won't be long," Aramis said resignedly.

"We need to get all of you to a physician."

Athos sank gratefully to the ground cradling his injured arm. "We've decided to head for Bordeaux."

Porthos nodded. "That makes sense. Can you ride?"

"Yes," Athos said without any hesitation.

"D'Artagnan?"

"I'll manage."

"Right. You two take a drink of this while I see to Aramis and saddle the horses." He handed the small bottle to d'Artagnan. "Not too much or it'll send you to sleep."

"Did you bring wine?" Athos asked, looking at the bottle distastefully.

"No, and with all of you sick I don't want to hear any stupid arguments. Either you drink it or I'll sit on you and pour it down your damn throat. As for you." Porthos rapidly switched his attention to Aramis. "Let me see."

One look at Porthos' face convinced Aramis to cooperate. He held out his arm and kept his eyes lowered while Porthos removed the bandage. Muttered imprecations were the only sounds Porthos made as he examined the cut.

"Wait here."

Porthos fetched water and heated it over the fire. He took a moment to glare at Athos who held the bottle of laudanum but had made no effort to drink. With a mutinous look Athos raised the bottle to his lips and tipped the vile tasting liquid into his mouth.

"Happy now?" Athos asked, his features twisted into an expression of disgust.

"Yes." Porthos dunked some bandages in the hot water and returned to Aramis. "This is goin' to hurt."

By the time he'd cleaned the wound, applied salve and bandaged it Aramis was deathly pale and only barely hanging on to consciousness.

"It's too late to stitch it," Aramis said feebly. "We must leave it open so that the poison can drain."

"Never was any good at needlework," Porthos said gruffly. "Rest while I get everythin' ready."

It was mid-morning by the time Porthos had tidied up the camp, doused the fire and readied the horses. He could see the laudanum taking hold. Athos and d'Artagnan were no longer as tense and the lines of pain on their faces had eased.

"You first." He grasped d'Artagnan's hand and helped him to stand. "How's the leg?"

"Easier than it was." D'Artagnan put his foot in the stirrup and Porthos boosted him up. He groaned and swayed but managed to settle in the saddle.

Athos was next. Once on his horse he gripped the reins tightly in his right hand and stared stoically ahead. Aramis made his way to his horse unaided although he made no effort to mount. Porthos waited for him to acknowledge his weakness.

With a resigned sigh Aramis turned to him. "Can you help me?"

"Damn fool," Porthos said but there was no censure in his tone. He knew why Aramis had risked his own life and would have expected nothing less. It didn't make it any easier to bear though. Any one of the three could still succumb to their injuries although the most likely casualty was the one person Porthos hadn't expected. They were as close as brothers, called the inseparables by their fellow Musketeers, but Porthos had always been drawn more toward Aramis. Their marksman had a joy for life that was infectious. He loved and fought with his whole heart and allowed nothing to drag him down. Except recently, Porthos mused, wondering again what it was that Aramis was keeping from him. He exhaled softly and put that thought away for another time.

Their pace was slow and steady. Porthos rode at the back where he could watch over them. When he saw Athos starting to lean forward over his horse's neck he called a halt. "We'll rest for a couple of hours," he said.

After settling his companions he brought out two cooked chickens and carved slices with his dagger. None of the three looked enthusiastic about eating but all made some effort. Aramis' shaking had increased and Porthos could feel the heat when he touched Aramis' forehead. He shook his head and went to check on Athos.

"The bandage is clean which means that the stitches are holdin'. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," Athos replied tartly. "Can I remove the sling? My arm feels like it's in a constant state of cramping."

"That's not a good idea."

"I should try to move my arm."

"No," Aramis interrupted weakly. "It is too soon. Give the wound a chance to heal. It will be a slow road to recovery and trying to hurry it will only cause more damage."

Porthos held out the bottle of laudanum. "More," he ordered.

"I'm fine, Porthos. The last dose is still doing its work."

"You're a terrible liar. Give me your word that you will tell me when it becomes too bad."

"You have it."

The concession was too rapid for Porthos' liking but he wouldn't impugn Athos' honour by questioning him further.

D'Artagnan's bandages were lightly stained with blood. Porthos removed them and checked the wound. "It looks clean but what do I know." He cast an irritated glare at Aramis.

"Let me see." Their medic got unsteadily to his feet and moved to d'Artagnan's side. He smiled at the younger man. "It is healing well. Do you have full feeling in your leg?"

"Yes." The rest had done d'Artagnan good. He had recovered his colour and his face was no longer filled with the signs of pain.

"That's good. It means the ball did no lasting damage."

"Now you," Porthos said.

Aramis' wound continued to be inflamed with green pus seeping from the edges. Porthos cleaned it again and applied a clean bandage with worry hammering in his chest. "Can you ride?"

"For a while," Aramis replied honestly.

By Porthos' reckoning they had covered no more than five miles before it became clear Athos and Aramis couldn't continue. He insisted that they stop despite their protestations. D'Artagnan asserted that he was well enough to help set up the camp and Porthos didn't have the heart or the energy to refuse. After finding a sturdy branch to use as a crutch d'Artagnan's movements grew easier although he was exhausted by the time they sat down for their evening meal.

Aramis stayed tucked up in his blankets claiming a lack of appetite. Athos ate sparingly and Porthos didn't force the issue. He did, as a gesture of apology for his earlier bad temper, offer a flask of wine. Athos' mood improved immediately.

When they lay down to sleep Porthos found his eyes staying stubbornly open while he waited for the inevitable deterioration in Aramis' condition. It wasn't long before Aramis began to toss and turn, talking nonsense to himself. Porthos rose, waved to the other two to indicate that he had everything in hand, and fetched a pot of water from a nearby stream. He wet a cloth and bathed Aramis' face and neck. The uncoordinated movements and the volume of Aramis' voice increased. Porthos recognized that they had come to the critical juncture where either the fever would break or Aramis' heart would fail.

Tbc


End file.
